Page 68 of The Reaper
“Uh-huh.” He dumped the quartered artichokes into a bowl of lemon water, smirking again.
I could argue semantics all day, but the truth was, Caleb had become more than I meant him to. He was in my kitchen, in my routines, in my head when I closed my eyes. And in my body—oh, definitely in my body—in ways that made me wonder what the hell I’d been doing with all those half-hearted flings before him.
Finn shifted to the stove, tossing a pan of mushrooms in butter. “So. What’s the plan for dinner? Please tell me we’re not doing that lamb again. Trish still talks about the time she found a bone shard.”
“Chicken with morel cream,” I said. “Seasonal vegetables. Salad to start. Something safe but perfect.”
“Safe,” Finn repeated, like it was a foreign word.
“They’re not here for an experimental tasting menu. They’re here to catch up. And—” I hesitated. “And to meet Caleb.”
There it was. Said out loud. And suddenly it felt like a bigger deal than I’d been letting myself admit.
Dean wasn’t just any uncle. He’d been the one to teach me—how to fold a napkin into a bishop’s hat, how to spot a bad knife from across a market, and so much more. He’d been there after the funeral, sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, telling me that someday, I could keep Meggie’s alive if I wanted to. That I had it in me.
And Trish—God, Trish was the closest thing I had to a mother now. Sharp-eyed, silver-haired, able to tell if I’d had a fight or a fling from the sound of my voice on the phone.
If they didn’t like him?—
I pushed the thought away.
Finn broke the quiet first. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get before a big review. Like you’re bracing for someone to tell you your food’s fine but forgettable.”
I smirked faintly. “You’re comparing Caleb to a food critic now?”
“I’m saying,” Finn said, “that you’ve survived plenty worse than an opinion you didn’t like. And if your family doesn’t approve? You’ll deal.”
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to think I’d just shrug it off. But some part of me—some stupid, tender part—already wanted Caleb to fit here, to be someone I could reach for without flinching when family was in the room.
Finn moved to the cooler, pulling out the cream. “You think he’ll bring wine?”
“Probably.”
“Good. If not, I’ve got a bottle in my locker that’ll make Trish sing.”
I laughed, the sound loosening the knot in my chest just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re distracted,” he said. “Which is fine. Just don’t burn the shallots.”
I wiped my hands on a towel and moved to the prep table, lining up herbs for the chicken. “You didn’t think that guy at lunch was weird?”
Finn shrugged. “Weird how? Quiet? Took pictures? You do realize that’s half the people who come in here now. Food porn is a national pastime.”
“Not like that,” I said. “He didn’t just snap a photo for Instagram. He documented every plate like he was filing a report. Angles, notes, the whole thing.”
Finn gave me a sidelong glance. “So, Michelin?”
I huffed out a laugh, more nervous than amused. “Unlikely, as you know. But …” I hesitated, sprinkling thyme into the cream. “If you’re good enough, and if the right people whisper inthe right ears—sometimes you can get noticed, right? Or at least, get reviewed in a way that matters.”
He leaned against the counter. “Define matters.”
“Matters isThe New York Timessending a critic down on their own dime because they’ve heard your duck confit is worth a flight. OrEaterrunning a full profile on your philosophy in the kitchen. OrBon Appétitsliding you into their ‘Best New Restaurants’ list before you’ve even wrapped your first year.”
Finn whistled low. “No pressure.”
